


Sun lights up the daytime, Moon lights up the night

by SecondStarOnTheLeft



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Future Fic, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-11-01 06:27:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10916193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/pseuds/SecondStarOnTheLeft
Summary: Sansa loves lazy mornings in bed, especially if she gets to share them with Willas.





	Sun lights up the daytime, Moon lights up the night

**Author's Note:**

> First SansaWillas smut in?? Two years or something?? Who fucking knew. Life is wild.
> 
> Title from _Fever_ but I mean, #iconic so you probably knew that.
> 
> If you really, really wanted to, you could probably assume this is canon for a fic of mine. No prizes for correct guesses ;)

Dawn is warm and soft, in Highgarden.

So is Sansa’s bed.

She stretches under the thick blankets, hands over her head and toes stretched toward the end of the bed, and rolls onto her side.

“Good morning,” Willas murmurs, voice low and rich, as heavy with sleep as his barely-open eyes. She loves him always, but thinks she might love him best like this, as warm and soft as the golden-white light creeping across the world.

“It is,” she tells him, curling an arm around him and tugging herself close, to fit against the long spread of his body. “It is a good morning.”

He laughs, quiet and fond, and the sound of it rumbles in his chest. Sansa is near as tall as him, but abed, she likes to tuck herself under his chin so she can press her ear to his skin and hear his heart beating, and that rumble of laughter almost tickles.

His arms are strong around her, when he gathers her even closer, and she hums in delight when he ducks his head to kiss her brow. She feels so safe, so adored, that she wishes she never had to leave their bed, just as she wishes every morning.

“I suppose we’d best start the day, love,” Willas says, nudging her head up so he can look her in the eye. “What do you say?”

She kisses him instead of saying anything at all, and thrills at the way his mouth goes soft and hungry under hers. She could kiss him for days, if he’d let her, nothing but the slow, greedy heat of his mouth on hers and his body pressed to her own, and she wonders if this morning is one of those rare, glorious occasions where she can convince him to wile away half the day in bed, interrupted only by a polite knock here and there from servants leaving food. 

“While you make a very compelling argument,” he says, rolling onto his back and turning his head to hide his smiling mouth, exposing his lovely throat to her, “I would remind you that we have a great many things to do today, darling.”

Sansa hums against his skin, worrying a mark into the skin below his neatly trimmed beard with her teeth, and ignores him. She knows all too well that they have full days ahead of them, but she doesn’t care, not when he is pliant under her and his hands are skimming over her hips and back, searing through her lace-trimmed shift.

“Gods be good, woman,” he groans as she settles herself across his lap, pressing her hips down into his and revelling in the hardness she can feel there. “How is a man supposed to do anything with a siren such as yourself in his bed?”

Sansa still has nothing to say, preferring to keep her mouth on his skin - if she’s quick, she’ll be able to leave his neck a ruin of bites and marks, and he’ll have to go about his day covered in reminders of this early, early morning, and everyone else will see them, too, because she knows precisely how high up his neck the turned-up collars of his doublets rise - she sewed most of them, after all.

“If you leave me with a necklace,” he says, arching his head back to expose more of his lovely neck, “I’ll be sure to return the favour, sweetheart.”

She laughs then, running her hand up the back of his neck to scratch through the short, dense curls at his nape. He shudders under her, one hand spasming on her hip and the other surging up the line of her spine to twist into her hair, to tug her head up so he can kiss her again.

Gone is his earlier gentleness, replaced now with the sting of his teeth on her lower lip as he drags her mouth open, and she delights in it, as she delights in all of him. She loves when he forgets to be careful of her, even if just for a moment, and so she leans into it, chases the taste of him into his mouth and  _ shakes  _ when his tongue slides just right against hers.

She’s rutting against him when he lets her up for air, when he looks up at her with dark eyes and pink cheeks, and she can’t help herself - she sits up straight, all her weight bearing down on his lap, and  _ rolls  _ her hips, just for the pleasure of watching his eyes snap shut and his spine snap up into a gorgeous arc, just for her.

_ “Sansa, _ ” he gasps, scrambling to push himself up on one arm, so he can reach for her, so he can kiss her again. His fingers are gentle against her throat, down the line of her breastbone, but his mouth is all fierce hunger, and she relishes the contrast. 

She pulls on his hair just to hear him moan, and is rewarded amply when he rolls her nipple between two fingers, just as she likes. He bites down on her lip, hard, and she gasps against his mouth -  _ yes, good, yes _ .

Willas likes it when she wears lace, but he likes it even better when she wears nothing at all. He leans back on his hands when she nudges his chest, and watches her, riveted, when she slowly peels her shift over her head, up high so it drags her hair with it, so her hair can fall back to curl over her shoulders, over her breasts. He’s smiling, the same soft smile he’d given her upon waking, full of warmth and pleasure at her very presence, and she kisses into that smile, knows that she’s matching it all the while.

“We shouldn’t,” he says, just louder than a whisper, hand full of her breast and his nose brushing against hers. “We haven’t time-”

“We have time,” she promises, reaching between them to stroke him, running the backs of her fingers against his length through the fine linen of his smallclothes. “We have as much time as we like.”

He rolls her then, suddenly, growling into her mouth as they go, and once he’s settled half-comfortably above her, he leans down to kiss her skin. 

He starts with the hollow at the base of her throat, dragging his teeth over her where she’s blushing, and she strokes her fingers through his heavy hair, revelling in his gentle wanting. His weight is all balanced on his left arm, but his right hand is stroking slow and firm up and down her side, following the curve of her waist and out over her hip.

“We have guests,” he murmurs, beard rasping over the slope of her breast - she can feel the curve of his mouth, knows he’s smiling, and strokes her hand down over his back as far as she can reach, just to touch more of him. “We ought to rise soon.”

“You have risen admirably, love,” she teases, tipping her hips up to fit against his for a moment, making him shudder. “Don’t you agree?”

“Wicked,  _ wicked  _ woman,” he laughs, tongue sliding wet over her nipple, drawing a high whine from her and making him laugh again. “What am I to do with you?”

“I can think of-  _ oh!” _

He laughs some more, as if for good measure, now kissing her nipple, just a little, and turning his head to lavish the same attention on her other breast, but still only just a little. 

“Are you certain?” he asks, resting his cheek against the inner swell of her breast, looking up at her as if her word is the only law in the world. “If you’d rather not-”

“If I were not certain, I would have left my shift on,” she points out, fingers tracing the high line of his cheekbone, the straight slope of his nose, the beautiful swell of his lower lip. “I have been certain for the better part of a month, love-”

“I know,” he assures her, rising up to loom over her, nose brushing against hers, “but you know how I worry, don’t you?”

She does - he worries for her constantly, although never over her duties, for he has faith in how capable she is. She loves him for it, even if it does irritate her sometimes, because he is so resistant to her worrying in return.

“I am ready,” she promises him. “I fear if I don’t press you now, Lyra will be weaned before I find your hand inside my smallclothes again.”

“Just my hand?” he asks, smiling as he kisses her once more, and she sighs, revels in the press of his weight settling between her legs - the linen of his smallclothes is soft, but in the way, and she so badly wants to touch him. “What of other such diversions, darling?”

He ruts hard against her, making her gasp and clutch at him, and kisses her again - always, always kisses her, because when first they were wed, when she was frightened of all that can happen in a marriage bed, he had kissed away her fear and promised to always kiss her, if it helped ease her sorrows, and has held to that promise. He holds to every promise he makes to her, she’s found.

“I wonder,” he murmurs, kissing now between her breasts, down over her belly, no longer smooth and firm but softened by their babes, and smiling up at her from between the spread of her thighs. It’s obscene, in the most comfortable, familiar way imaginable, and she scratches through the short hair above his ear when he presses a lingering kiss to her hipbone. “Have you thought much about  _ this _ diversion, sweetheart?”

“Some,” she admits, biting her lip to keep from smiling, to keep from moaning when he shifts her legs over his shoulders, when he nudges his nose against her folds, then his tongue, then his  _ tongue,  _ oh, oh  _ gods- _

“Quiet, love,” he warns her, all teasing now that she’s pink all over and gasping for breath, “we wouldn’t want our guests to hear you.”

He takes his time, letting his tongue follow the shape of her as if he’s never done this before, as if he’s learning her for the very first time, and she chokes back cries of pleasure every time the tip of his tongue brushes over her nub, for they truly do have guests, and those same guests are housed in Sansa’s rooms, which adjoin Willas’ rooms by a firmly locked door. 

_ “Please _ ,” she begs, pulling on his hair with one hand and slamming the other against the headboard, twisting desperately to try and find a release, to press her cunt harder against his mouth because she’s so close to her peak that it  _ hurts.  _

But he eases away, licks into the creases of her thighs, presses her leg back toward her chest so he can nudge the back bend of her knee with his nose and make her squirm, leans up to nip marks into her hipbones and to nuzzle against the silver-pink lines scoring her belly, memorials of all they’ve made together.

And then he lowers his head again, cupping his hands under her backside to lift her up and leave her spread wide for him, open and soaking and desperate for the press of his tongue, the gentle slide of his lips, and maybe, if he’s feeling particularly naughty, the graze of his-

_ “Yes!” _

He laughs, letting his teeth catch just once more before covering her nub with his lips, before slipping on hand from under her to sink two fingers deep, curling  _ up  _ just right to make her cry out again, so loud that she presses her hand over her mouth to try and quiet herself - not that it will make much difference, not this morning. It’s been too long since he’s touched her like this, too long since she’s been able to rock against his wonderful mouth and long fingers and  _ use  _ him, the way he likes to be made use of, and that’s enough to make her pull harder on his hair and bite the heel of her hand, because all it takes is a teasing crook of his fingers inside her to make her scream.

And he doesn’t stop. She  _ loves  _ mornings like this.

“That’s it, love,” he croons, biting the inside of her thigh hard enough to bruise, his fingers sinking in and crooking back out, making her jerk and cry out, hands tugging at his hair and slamming against the headboard, again and again until she’s shouting again, louder now and without a hand over her mouth to mute her cries.

When she's calmed down, she turns her head - he's moved to lie alongside her, lying on his front, his arm heavy over her waist and half his face hidden by the pillow.

But he's smiling, smug and handsome and delicious, and she leans over just enough to kiss him. It's perfect, until his fingers press into her breast as she likes best, and it  _ hurts. _

“Damned nursing,” she grumbles, rubbing away his concern with the pad of her thumb to the frown furrowing his brow. “It's always the same, love, you know that.”

“And you know I hate to hurt you,” he points out, kissing over her shoulders and back as she rolls to lie on her front, exposing her back and bottom to him. “Sweetheart…”

She bites her lip, watches him over her shoulder, and can see the moment when he gives in. His surrender arrives, as always, with a lingering, gentle kiss to the scar across the back of her neck, one of the most frightening memories the Kingsguard branded her with - the one that frightens Willas most, she knows, even though she suffered that wound before he even knew her name.

“Are you certain?” he whispers, a breath against the shell of her ear as he settles himself between her wide-spread legs, his chest firm against her back, his manhood hard against her thigh. “You would have me?”

“I want  _ you _ to have  _ me,” _ she says, rolling her head back over his shoulder, nuzzling her cheek into the rough of his tidy beard, and smiling when he hums in pleasure. 

“I could always slide back down the bed,” he says, and he’s smiling, she can feel it, “and I could lie with my head between your legs.”

One hand is back between her legs, and gods, it is  _ so  _ tempting to imagine him kissing her to her peak again and again, especially with his thumb pressing gentle circles over her nub, and-

She moans, hungry and aching, and he laughs, nipping at the curve of her neck. 

“Or,” he says, low, silken, “to be sure I don’t hurt your poor, lovely breasts, I could lie back against the pillows, love,” he says, two fingers sinking back into her once more, pressing down against the sensitive spot inside her just as his thumb presses  _ up  _ against her nub, and she wails into the pillow, “and I could settle you over my face, sweetheart, would you like that?”

She would, gods, he’s done that before, lain back and had her sit on his face when he’s been using his crutches all day and his shoulders are aching, and it’s  _ blissful,  _ but no, no matter how tempting that is,  _ no- _

“No,” he says, withdrawing his hand completely, “no, I think you know well what you want, love, don’t you?”

_ “Yes,”  _ she manages to hiss out, “Willas, please darling,  _ please- _ ”

It’s exquisite, the slow, easy way he sinks into her. The familiar stretch of her body around his is-  _ this  _ is perfection, never mind anything else, Willas fitting into her as if made for it, moaning against her ear as if he’s never felt anything so wonderful. Sansa would be the same, were she not gone beyond words - but she is, for they’ve not shared this since she started to show with Lyra, for  _ half a year,  _ and she was sure she’d go mad for wanting him, wanting  _ this.  _

“I love you,” she chokes out, clutching for the edge of the mattress to ground herself, pulling hard on his hair to make him moan like that again, tipping her backside up so she can take him deeper, so she’s stretched tighter around him. “I love, I love you, I love you-”

“I love you,” he grits out, teeth catching sharp on her neck and shoulder and nape, “I love you, I’ve  _ missed  _ you-”

Sansa bites down hard on her pillow when he begins to move quicker, her whole body thrumming with pleasure, with that nearby-edge, desperate to hold on until Willas has found his pleasure, but it’s too much, it’s too  _ much! _

She manages to drag her leg up, knee bent under her, so she can get a hand to her cunt, so she can touch herself and push herself that last little bit, and he curses, filthy words muffled by her hair, before curling his hand over hers, between her legs, and fitting his fingers between hers so that sometimes it’s her fingertips and sometimes it’s his, and the contrast is  _ dizzying,  _ oh, it’s  _ wonderful. _

She calls his name when she peaks, head thrown back over his shoulder, all consideration for their guests forgotten, and he shouts hers, harsh and overjoyed, in return. 

Then they still, quiet and heavy and warm in the slow, Willas’ weight a comfort draped over her, with the soft scratch of the hair on his chest against her shoulder blades and the familiar abruptness of his half-a-leg tucked into the back of her knee. Sansa feels slumped and lazy, and glories in it, in  _ him,  _ and that is enough.

Willas rolls off her, lies on his side facing her, and watches.

“Good morning,” he says again, laughter warm in his soft voice.

She curls her arm around his waist, tugs herself close and fits herself against the long spread of his body.

“It is,” she agrees, and smiles. “It is a good morning.”


End file.
